


On Faith

by SheegothBait



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Existential Horror, Gen, Human Experimentation, Murder, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 06:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheegothBait/pseuds/SheegothBait
Summary: Dealing with human mortality is a difficult thing. Especially when it's your own.





	On Faith

You awaken, not knowing where you are, scrambling at memories half-faded by confusion and drugs.

_The attack._

Yes. You were called in, roused to defend the facility when the guards at the gate pulled the alarms and went silent. You remember fighting against well-armed, well-armored men, that they seemed to put too much faith in their armor, and that they had fallen. Things had been going well…until the cloud-man showed up.

The instant you got a good look at him, you recognized him; the Reaper, a known terrorist and murderer. In the fighting you’d taken a bullet in the side and collapsed, bleeding badly. You had slid in and out of consciousness while others fell around you.

You remember a woman with striking red hair and unsettling eyes peering at you, and the pain vanishing.

When you regained some semblance of awareness, you realized the fight was over. The intruders had rounded the guards up and had them on their knees, the Reaper prowling in the background. The woman with red hair had made the captives an offer, then: _Die here by the Reaper’s hands, or come with us as captives._ She had elaborated a little on the deal, even: those who would stay behind and be killed were in for a messy death; the Reaper had a reputation to keep up, after all. She, by comparison, was a scientist working to better humanity. She promised a role in her work, vaguely, to those who would come with.

You couldn’t imagine that it was anything pleasant, but it had to be better than being gutted by a murderous smoke-cloud.

More people than you expected joined you in taking the woman’s offer. You were herded out into the loading docks, bound around the wrists, and hooded so that you could not see. You began to pray at that point.

That is the last thing you remember before waking up here.

You sit up slowly, trying to mind your wound, paw at the cheap shirt your captors put you into, and find no evidence of the bullet hole.

Huh. Being healed was more than you expected from them, though it raises some uncomfortable questions about how long you’ve been under. Your head feels strangely light and cold, and when you brush a hand over it, you discover you’ve been shaved as bald as an egg. _Vulnerable._ Discomfort curls up in your gut and lies there like an unwanted pest, needling at your insides. You know it’s just a sign of what’s to come.

You reach for your rosary next. But that’s also missing, as are your normal clothes, your shoes, and your belt. They must not want you hurting yourself. You begin to pray anyway, your mind brewing up horrors that you are desperate to push away. But the nagging thought refuses to go away; you’re in trouble now. You’ve made a deal with the Devil, and now comes the time to pay.

You’re halfway through the fourth decade when you’re interrupted. Three armored guards file into the room and beckon for you to come with them, telling you to stay within the yellow lines. They have Tasers and nightsticks.

You try to swallow the bowling ball lodged in your throat and follow without a fight.

They lead you to a gleaming white room full of monitors and scientific equipment and carts stacked with surgical trays. The carts are out of easy reach; trying to grab them would mean stepping outside the yellow lines.

Still, a beating would stall this…whatever the scientist is planning to do to you. And maybe buy you enough time to figure out how you’re going to get out of here.

You make a lunge for one of the trays.

Electricity bursts through you, making stars pop behind your eyes, turning your muscles into jelly and your nerves into flame. The guards hoist you onto the table as soon as you stop twitching and strap you down.

You lay there, fighting the lingering effects of the shock, swallowing the tang of your own blood and the bitter taste of presumption and defeat.

“How do you feel?”

You crane your head up. The redhead’s back, this time wearing pristine white instead of black. Somehow, she looks even more terrifying in her lab coat.

You say nothing. There’s no reason for you to voice how stupid you feel at this very moment or talk about the tremors of fear running just beneath your skin.

“The quiet type, hm?”

You don’t respond, your mind turning back to your prayers. There is no point in talking to this mad scientist.

“As you wish. If you do have something to say, however, do try to keep a civil tongue.”

You say nothing.

She picks up a pair of surgical scissors from one of the carts and removes your shirt in quick, clean cuts. You shut your eyes, trying to hide the tears welling up there, turn away as she proceeds to the leg of your pants.

“…pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death,” you whisper.

The scissors stop at your knee. You open your eyes. She’s not paying attention at the moment; her gaze focused on some far-off point in the distance. You feel your nose running and sniff, trying to keep snot off your face. This draws her attention, but you avoid her gaze. You flinch as she presses something to your face, but she’s just wiping your nose. 

“Are you familiar with the concept of martyrdom?”

You nod, just once. You have a feeling you know where she’s going with this.

“Sacrificial lambs. A pertinent idea.” She takes a package off a nearby cart, tears it open, and begins pressing electrodes to your chest. The tape feels cold and stiff against your skin.

“You plan on killing me,” you say, your voice cracking. You can taste blood upon your lips.

She catches your chin, her fingers cold but surprisingly gentle. “Your death is not the main point of these experiments. But if you do die, how many more will your sacrifice save? How many people could use what we learn here today? Hm?”

“You are a terrorist. What good could your science do?”

She does not seem bothered by the question. “Humans are the final test subjects in all products and procedures meant for the general public. By removing the steps it takes to transition an experiment from rabbits or mice to humans, you cut out so _very_ much failure and so many setbacks. Progress, therefore, is greatly accelerated.” She returns to removing your pants. “My methods may be radical, but they produce results far faster than standing and waiting for willing lab subjects. Some are, but the majority are…more like you.” She opens another package of electrodes, this time very small ones. Her fingers are precise and careful as she applies them to your hairless head. “Don’t you want to be part of something larger than yourself?”

Her words sting. You _do_ want to make a difference. Just… “Not like this,” you respond.

“Knowledge and influence aren’t for those who wait for importance to come to them. You have to go looking for it.” She strokes your cheek. “But I can still help you achieve what you’re searching for. And in the end, all you have to give up is your body.”

“I die regardless of what happens,” you say, your mouth drying out. You weren’t sure if capture meant death before, but you have to know.

“I’m afraid so. Talon holds a no-survivor policy in taking out these smaller targets, but I abhor waste. Here, at least, you have a chance to make something of yourself before you go. And when the time comes, it will be done painlessly.”

You say nothing. There’s nothing _to_ say, so you just shiver in the cold. She does not break the silence, swabbing your arms down and preparing IV tubing. _She’s going to inject you with death,_ you think, staring up at the strangely-colored fluids in the IV bags.

“What are you going to do to me?” You ask, your voice cracking.

“Genetic therapy of a rather extreme kind. Possibly mutagenesis. We’ll see.” She responds as though she’s reading off a grocery list or a weather report.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“There’s always room to learn and improve,” she says nonchalantly.

You close your eyes, wincing as she slides needles into your arms. How could this woman be so ice-cold, talking about murder and human testing as though she was discussing a daily commute? You want to fight, to struggle, to _anything_ besides lay here and take the poison she is readying to pump into your body, but you see no other option. Fighting will only make the guards come and tighten your restraints. Even if you could get off the table, attempted escape is sure to bring punishment and death, and trying to kill the guards or this woman will likely get you worse. No, there are supposed to be no survivors of Talon’s mission, and that includes you.

“Are you familiar with philosopher J.J.C Smart?”

You say nothing. Yes, you know about utilitarianism, the theory that what benefits the most amount of people is the right decision. As if you didn’t have enough reasons to hate her already. It’s not the principle itself that bothers you, but in _context…_

“You will help us create a new world, a _better_ world with your sacrifice. Your god had his chance to be a sacrifice for something to better humankind. Now you have yours.”

You can’t even bring yourself to curse at the woman. To lie here and know you are about to die is _appalling_ beyond words. Your eyes prickle with tears, and you turn away from her.

“Are you afraid?”

Bending your neck even that little bit in a nod is like bending an iron bar in one hand, but you manage it.

“I suppose I can reward you a little for being so polite. Usually my subjects kick and scream and spit at me like wild animals.” She removes something from her coat pocket. You don’t look. You don’t want to know what it is.

“The guards took this from you. I think they were concerned you’d hurt yourself with it, but I think you’re secure enough that you won’t.”

She places something on your palm, and you recognize the feel of your rosary beads. You squeeze them until they press imprints into your skin and take a bead between your fingers.

“Why?” You ask, your throat desert-dry.

She looks into your eyes. “I am many things: a skeptic, a scientist, a cold but fair judge. But I am not a sadist. No one should die without hope.”

She presses a hand to your forehead, briefly, then turns back to her work. You cling to the beads in your hand.

“I know you may not believe me, but I have no wish to cause you unnecessary pain. I believe I have all the data I can gain by keeping someone conscious throughout this procedure.” She picks up a syringe and a small vial, spikes the small vial on the needle.

Cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. “What is that?”

“A sedative.” She inspects the markings on the side of the syringe, holding it up between two taloned fingers and measuring a precise amount. “You do want some relief from the pain, don’t you?”

You don’t respond to her question. “When you die, where will you wind up?” You ask instead.

Liquid beads along the needle she’s holding as she pushes out the air. “I suppose you mean my soul, but as that is forfeit even if I did believe in souls and afterlifes, then history books at the very least. People will recognize my work. They always do in the end.” She caps the syringe, puts it down, walks away. “Discussing religion is a waste of my time, and my time is exceedingly valuable. But as long as it does not involve me, it won’t bother me, at least for a few minutes. Pray if you wish; I will not stop you.” She pauses. “I advise you use your time wisely, though; you don’t have much left.”

Her words fall like the blow of an executioner’s axe, and your breath seizes in your chest. “Don’t put me und-“

She sighs, cutting you off. “And I thought you were going to be one of the less-cliché subjects. A pity. You cannot stop this, so it’s a waste of energy and time to try.”

You strangle your rosary in one hand, wishing it was something, anything, to make you feel less impotent. You’re angry, _furious_ , but above all you’re terrified, quaking with fear. You’re not ready to die, let alone at the hands of this harpy.

_God have mercy on me._

“You have less reason to fear death than most, you know,” she muses.

“It’s not my time,” you retort.

“That’s what everyone who dies below the age of…oh, say eighty-five thinks. The truth is, no one’s ever ready for death. It simply happens, and many are not lucky enough to brace themselves. You have the gift of knowing how and when it will happen and making mental preparations. Have you made them?”

You choke, trying to swallow tears. “One…one more prayer, please.”

“Take your time. I still have a few preparations to make myself.”

You try to ignore her as she bustles around the lab, sinking every ounce of your energy into focusing on your prayer.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name…_

The scientist paces back to you, adjusts the drips anchored under your skin. Something that burns like frostbite flows into your veins.

_Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…_

She’s speaking a time, a date, a number into a mic. You shiver as you realize that number is supposed to represent _you._ Your muscles suddenly twitch in an involuntary spasm, pain radiating up you arm. When it passes, you realize you’ve dropped your last possession. Your eyes sting with angry tears, and you shut them tightly as she approaches with a syringe. 

_Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…_

She gives a soft chuckle. Is she laughing because she knows you’ll never be able to forgive her, or that forgiveness takes time you don’t have, or simply because she doesn’t believe in the concept of forgiveness? You try to ignore this slight. The muscle spasms have stopped, but you feel strangely weak, uncoordinated. It’s hard to form words. What did she give you?

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._

You grit your teeth as you end the prayer, but a sob still escapes you. You clench your empty hands, physically shaking with rage. A cold hand brushes your own, long, pointed nails prying carefully at your fists. You open them. There’s no point in fighting any more.

She wordlessly places your rosary back into your palm, curls your fingers around it, and pats you hand lightly, just twice, as if to say _hold onto this._ The small crucifix digs into your palm as you smother the item in your hand. You glance at her. She’s bent over you, pulling a needle from the IV stuck in your arm, and she catches your gaze, those unnerving eyes staring back at you. You know, then; this is it. You’re going under, and you will not wake up.

She straightens, the bright lights catching in her orange hair. The image burns itself into your mind as it slips away; a gaunt angel with a halo of fire. A once-sacred thing, fallen from grace.

**Author's Note:**

> I read Wrong (To Prove I'm Right) by euhemeria and this fell out. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
